


In a Little Bookshop

by RRRobin



Series: Bookshop!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RRRobin/pseuds/RRRobin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Good Omens. Where Dean is the demon and Castiel is the angel in a bookshop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Little Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave your thoughts on the story. Constructive criticism would be appreciated.

**Prologue**

Castiel has known Dean Winchester for three earth years. They met at an Earthbound Heaven ‘n’ Hell office party, the only one Castiel could bring himself to attend; when Dean had turned to him at the refreshment table and asked if that floating hand giving them the middle finger was supposed to be in the punch bowl. And it was during one demon’s particularly painful rendition of Toni Braxton’s Unbreak my Heart when Dean had turned to him and said, “Do you want to get the hell out of this douche hole?”

For some reason, one that no one could explain or fathom or bother themselves with thinking about, after that night both Dean and Castiel decided to continue seeing each other’s unchanging and never aging faces. Castiel owned and ran a small bookstore on a corner in a large city while Dean worked a field job for the Office of Sinners and Sinning, but they always made time for each other. 

It went as follows: every Thursday night after Castiel closed up the shop and he’d kicked out every last straggler that didn’t have a life or a girlfriend or a subscription to some pornography website; Dean would knock on the old wooden door twice, Castiel would let him in and they’d play a game. 

Three years later and they’ve never missed a night yet. 

 

**Thursday: Go Fish**

“You look self-satisfied.” Castiel says. They are fifteen minutes into their night and he knows Dean is bursting to tell him something. The smirk and constant giggling is always a sign of Dean’s true excitable and devilish nature.

“Well, it did only take me two days to get Danneel Harris to commit adultery. I am so awesome.”

“Hmm.” Castiel never knows what to say in response to mentions of Dean’s work. He usually just bites his tongue and hums something non-committal. 

“You don’t sound impressed. Come on, Cas, feed my ego and tell me how good I am at being bad.”

Unless provoked. Only then would Castiel open his mouth and actually say what was on his mind minus the vulgar language his mind usually supplied, which was always quite colorful and sometimes innovative.

“You tricked and lied to that poor woman. I will not congratulate you.”

Dean loosens his black tie, rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and smirks. If Castiel could see his eyes, which are always covered by black sunglasses, he knows they would be alight with the mischievous fires of hell. Or so the stories say.

“It’s not my fault that she likes stunningly bad poetry and a Spanish accent as bad as Inigo Montoya. Trust me, Cas, everyone can be tempted and everyone has the will to sin.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and Dean sputters.

“You can’t tell me that you’ve never ever wanted anything, that you’ve never even been tempted.” 

“No, I have not.”

Dean fixes the dark glasses slipping down his freckled nose and tips back the black fedora covering his light brown hair. 

“Have you ever felt want, Castiel?” Dean’s voice is a low rumble and Castiel has never heard it like this before. “It starts out in your gut. A heavy ball of heat and then grows and spreads like wildfire lighting every cell in your body.”

Castiel blinks and then says, “No, Dean. I have never felt anything akin to what you have just described but it sounds like something Pepto Bimol can cure.” 

“And this is why you’re still a virgin, Cas. Well that and your penchant for dressing like you’re stuck in the 40s.” Dean sighs and leans back in his chair.

And maybe sometimes when Castiel is faced with a hard question or a hard truth, he prefers to ignore it and lie until the awkward moment passes and he can safely share the truth with himself when he’s alone. He sits there across from Dean at the tiny table they share and thinks about how he’s always wanted to know what color Dean’s eyes are behind those black sunglasses. 

He sighs a little. “As you were, do you have an ace of spades?”

Dean smiles, gently. “No, go fish angel boy.”

 

**Thursday: Scrabble**

“Dean can you please refrain from spelling the word ‘balls’ over and over again.”

“Don’t blame me, Cas. I can’t help it that I keep getting the same sets of letters.”

“Foour times in a row is not a coincidence.”

Dean laughs and his dark sunglasses slip down his nose just a bit. He pushes them back into place and waves his hand over the scrabble board. All the words become synonyms of the word ‘balls.’

If Castiel could kill with a stare, he would but unfortunately he is not all that powerful or George Washington. 

“The magic of language.” Dean waggles his eyebrows as he says so.

Castiel changes the letters back to what they were and Dean leans back in his chair and unwraps a piece of chocolate. The first two buttons of his white shirt are open and his tie hangs dangerously loose around his neck.

It’s Halloween, their first one together and Dean is unusually quite and somber tonight despite his various tricks. He chews his chocolate slowly, jaw working it over in his mouth before he swallows it down.

“Best Halloween I’ve had in a long while. I’m entertained, I have candy and I’m hanging out with a friend.”

Castiel pauses in his laying of the square block letters. He has never given much thought as to what the both of them as a pair are. “We are friends?”

Dean unwraps another mini-mars bar and says, “We are the Miriam Webster definition of friends.”

“I see.”

Castiel doesn’t actually see. He says it mostly to quell Dean’s expectations of a response. For some reason, calling what they have a friendship doesn’t seem right to Castiel. It doesn’t accurately describe anything at all.

Castiel also starts to wonder how Dean spent all his other Halloweens before and after they met.

 

**Thursday: Clue**

Castiel is just setting down his Batman coffee mug (given to him by Dean one year for Christmas) on the table when Dean clears his throat. It’s the sort of throat clearing usually followed by some sort of revelation or dramatic statement but Dean has been doing it for the last half an hour and he’s said nothing.

And Castiel keeps waiting. He picks up the dice and he’s about to shake it between both hands but Dean’s voice (minus the throat clearing) stops him.

“Cas…how long have you been on earth?” He finally asks.

“80 years. Since 1914.” Castiel replies, his words drawn out slowly in confusion. He doesn’t know how this is relevant to their game.

“How did you become an angel? Did you die a Good Samaritan and then poof, the big man upstairs gave you wings?”

“No, I was created. I have no prior life, just one long continuous stream of existence.” It’s a common misconception. Humans and demons alike think that good souls that reach heaven attain angel status but they don’t. They remain human souls. 

“Oh.” Dean says. He seems to consider this information and frowns. Castiel wants to ask why but he doesn’t. He knows Dean won’t tell him the truth. Demons lie. So Castiel continues on with the story of his own life, when it actually began.

“I used to guard the gates of Heaven. In my training, they told me to always look ahead or at my list and never look down but I was curious. I looked down and saw the suffering to come in 1914, 1939 and 1955 so I left.”

“You fought in all the major wars?” Dean said, his tone disbelieving.

“I did not fight; I was a field medic.”

There is a lull in their conversation after that. They continue to play but they do not discuss the game or anything for that matter. Castiel becomes distracted with old memories of blood and misery and the madness of man. He doesn’t like to dwell on history too often because it’s too full of ghosts that never rest.

Castiel clears his throat. “How did you become a demon?”

Dean doesn’t pause. He isn’t shocked or fazed by the question. He moves his game piece down two spots.

“I killed a bunch of people.”

“Why?”

“Because…they killed my family,” Dean’s voice changes as he says this. A smooth accent now laces his words, one that Castiel has never heard before. “Sam, my brother, fell for the type of girl he had no business in fallin’ for. Sometimes, no matter what you do, you can’t make a bad person good.”

“Revenge,” Castiel stops, the moment seems especially fragile so he takes care and chooses his next words carefully. “Did it help?”

“Yes and no. Can I guess now?” Dean sounds frustrated and annoyed with both himself and Castiel. 

“Of course.” Castiel concedes gently. He doesn’t want to break the thin ice they’re standing on. He doesn’t want to drown.

“Scarlet in the library with the lead pipe.” 

This isn’t one of their good nights.

Thursday: Monopoly

“Don’t be a bitch, Cas. Pay the damn land tax.” Dean’s in his usual suit today, the only difference today being that his loosened tie is red and not black.

“Your land tax is absurdly high and unfair.” Castiel narrows his eyes and grudgingly hands over $150.

Dean says nothing. He just sits there and smirks over a yellow Wonder Woman mug full of black coffee.

“I should have known you would not play fair. You’re a demon. Your kind is responsible for the invention of creepy porcelain dolls.” Castiel continues.

“And Mono, the kissing disease.”

“....”

“Oh, and for those moments where you’re stuck in a washroom stall without toilet paper.”

“That is just cruel.”

“Let’s level the playing field a little. What are your feathered butts responsible for?”

Castiel thinks it over for a moment and then proudly states. “Cheetos and Mountain Dew.”

“The holiest of holy drinks and snack foods?” Dean’s mouth hangs open for a moment in wonder before it shuts. “I bow down before your greatness. Thanks by the way.”

“You are very welcome, Dean.”

“Anything else I should be aware of?”

Castiel smiles. “I remember an angel named Uriel. We grew up together. He was in charge of religious figures appearing on food.”

“Wait a minute…you mean like Jesus on a taco?” 

“Exactly that. Uriel severely hated his celestial job. He was hoping to get fired from his position when he made the image of Elvis appear on a potato chip but alas, God found it more humorous than appalling.”

Dean tips his head back and laughs and laughs. Castiel knows he has never seen Dean laugh this loud or this much in the years they've been friends.

This is one of their best nights.

 

**Thursday: Snakes and Ladders**

Castiel is annoyed. Since his arrival that evening, Dean has done nothing but talk about his job and the sins he’d committed that week. Usually, he can handle it because Dean only mentions one small event and then moves on but tonight, he doesn’t stop.

“It was like taking candy from a baby,” Dean pauses and ponders this statement. “Okay, more like getting them to take the candy from the baby.”

Castiel tossed the dice roughly onto the board and Dean quiets down to look at him. His black sunglasses ever present.

“Dean…”

“Fine, bad analogy but trust me, it was awesome.”

“Dean.”

“What?”

Castiel takes a calming breath and counts to three before he speaks. “I feel that I must remind you that I am not one of your demon friends and that I do not take or share joy in hearing about a lot of what you do.”

“But it’s not even all that bad. Just a little bit of coveting thy neighbor’s goods is all. And maybe a wife or two, I lost count. ”

Castiel leaves the table and goes into the back room which doubles as a kitchen and an office. He needs a moment to himself. He cannot understand why Dean does it if he knows it makes Castiel feel uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel like Dean is himself when he does it. 

He fills his Batman mug with hot water and dips in an Earl Grey tea bag. He can feel Dean standing in the doorway watching him.

“Don’t get all self-righteous on me, angel,” The way Dean says the word is scornful and not teasing like it usually is. “You know what I am and what I do so it should be a given that I do bad things.”

“Except you’re not bad and I cannot understand why it is you feel that you must prove otherwise.”

Castiel turns around and leans against the counter, ignoring his tea and allowing it to cool. Dean is no longer in the doorway and when Castiel checks the shop floor, his black coat is gone. He sighs, turns off the lights and heads upstairs to his bedroom. He’s angered Dean and he feels guilty about it. He should have been able to control himself and not spoken out of turn.

He strips off his suit coat and he’s unbuttoning his waistcoat when he hears footsteps. Castiel turns around and Dean steps into his space, grabbing his white shirt and pulling him in close. He expects for Dean to hit him or push him around in anger but he doesn’t do either. Instead, Dean dips his head to the side and brings their lips together.

Castiel’s too shocked to respond. He’s unprepared and inexperienced. It did not occur to him in the slightest that this could be the result of their argument. His skin feels too warm and his stomach turns over hotly, all just from a desperate press of lips. All of what he is experiencing reminds him of Dean’s surprisingly accurate description of want.

“It’s you,” Dean says when he pulls his mouth away. His breaths coming out labored against Castiel’s mouth. He doesn’t say much more before he goes back in for another kiss, which Castiel reciprocates eagerly.

He could put an end to this. He could turn Dean away and apologize profusely for everything this evening has become but he doesn’t because he doesn’t want to stop. Relations between angels and demons are frowned upon but they’re hardly rare and rarely punished. For once, Castiel decides to be selfish. 

They pull and push at each others clothes until there’s nothing but skin under their hands. No more tables or words or space or clothes separating them, preventing them from touching. Things spiral and saunter vaguely downwards from there. Later when they’re lying in Castiel’s bed, Dean moving on top of him slick with sweat and flushed with exertion, he learns something he’s always wanted to know.

Dean’s eyes are green.

 

**Thursday: Chess**

Dean hasn’t called on him all week, which is not uncommon. What is uncommon and irregular, however, is that when 8:00 pm rolls around Dean does not knock at his door. Castiel waits at their table in the middle of his shop, the chess board and pieces set up perfectly. White and black kings, queens, rooks, bishops and pawns frozen and trapped inside their squares.

The clock above the register ticks away the hour and inches into the next with no change. The quiet in the shop continues and Castiel doesn’t look up from the board up the clock strikes midnight. It’s only then that Castiel realizes that Dean isn’t coming at all. He’s been waiting for nothing. Either Dean is still upset with him for their disagreement or Dean has had his fun with the lonely angel in the bookshop. 

Maybe everything and anything Castiel knew about Dean Winchester had been a lie. He feels the pain of that possibility sharply beneath his ribs, where his heart sits in its cage of bone.

Castiel leaves the table and walks quickly into the kitchen. He turns off the coffee machine and dumps the dark liquid down the sink. He didn’t make the coffee for himself. Castiel leaves everything else in its place and only pulls out the old tan British officer trench coat he’d picked up in the second war. He’s going to need that coat. Heaven’s always a little too cold, even for him. 

Castiel walks to the door beside the window in his bedroom, the 3rd door in the room and the one that opens for no one but him, and turns the cold glass knob. The door opens inward and Castiel steps out onto a white glossy tiled floor. The silver gates are already open for him and he walks through.

Heaven used to be very boring when it was just God and his angels. It was endless miles of blinding white landscape. When the human souls started coming, everything changed. Heaven is made up of the dreams and the memories of the dead. Different patches from different times all side by side and stuck together. 

It takes a while but Castiel eventually finds the strong wooden house sitting on dusty dirt. The Winchester family sits on the porch together, Mary in a chair by her husband John, her blonde hair so much like Dean’s. Sam sits on the steps, his shirt loose and suspenders off his shoulders, reading a book. 

Mary and John look peaceful. Sam looks anything but. He reads his novel but keeps taking breaks to look down their street as if he’s waiting for something. From next door, a ball rolls into Sam’s shoe and he picks it up. A lovely girl named Jessica Moore with golden curls and a 50s white sundress walks over to Sam and they spend a few minutes talking before she walks away blushing. They’re in love but neither of them does much about it.

Sam’s just about to sit down again when he says, “Ma? Where has Dean got to?” 

Mary looks puzzled for a moment before the creases in her face smooth out and she stands up. She tells the men in her family that she’s going inside to make dinner and disappears through the door. That’s the thing about heaven, it’s pleasant and wonderful and meant to be a reward but a lot is forgotten in order for it to be that way. John Winchester, a man with dark hair and eyes, pats Sam on the head before he too goes inside their house. Sam frowns deeply, he knows what’s missing. He hasn’t completely forgotten about his older brother.

Sam sighs and sits back down on the wooden porch steps. He notices Castiel and waves to him. Castiel removes his right hand from his pocket and waves back. 

Hell doesn’t change people. It’s the things a person does that marks them and makes them who they are. Dean didn’t go to hell because he was an evil person. He went to hell because he killed four people, cold and without remorse, and because he believed he deserved to go there.

 

**Three Thursdays Later: Chess Pt. 2**

 

Castiel hasn’t given up on Dean. He waits every night until midnight, not just on Thursdays, and goes to bed wondering if he’s wrong to even hope. He leaves the chess board set up just in case. On the third Thursday night, Castiel is at the table drinking tea and reading Charlie Wilcox by Sharon E. McKay when someone clears their throat from behind him. 

Castiel doesn’t fall out of his chair but he does throw his sword at the wall next to the intruder’s head.

“What the hell, Cas?!”

The intruder turns out to be Dean who keeps staring at the silver sword embedded in the wall of his shop. Castiel removes it with ease and a bit of plaster and chipped paint falls to the ground.

“You could have killed me! Possibly even ruined my suit.” Dean says, fixing his black tie and adjusting his black sunglasses. He looks as well put together as ever and just as amusingly self-absorbed. 

“Don’t sneak up on me then.” Castiel warns. He may be bitter and upset with Dean over the four week long absence. Just a little. Maybe a lot. 

“Can we talk? Maybe without the sword in your hand?” Dean asks, not even making to move towards the table from the kitchen doorway.

Castiel smirks a little and raises his empty hands. “What sword?”

“Where’d it go? Did you just Jedi mind trick me?” Dean looks a little freaked out. Castiel revels in it just a tiny bit.

“Oh I assure you, the sword is very real. I put it away for the moment.” Castiel takes a seat at the small circular table and picks up his Batman mug.

Dean takes the seat across from him and folds his hands on the table. He clears his throat again and tries to smile but stops.

“So…” He starts out, awkwardly.

“We had sex and you did not call or write,” Castiel finishes for him. Dean winces a little but Castiel doesn’t stop there. “I feel a bit unforgiving and quite in the mood to revert back to my old duty of smiting evildoers.” 

Dean gulps loudly and Castiel calmly takes a sip of his tea.

“Your turn.” Castiel presses since Dean continues to remain silent. He’s sick of knowing how he feels about the situation. He’s had four weeks to think about everything and at the end of it all, he really just wants to know Dean’s thoughts.

“I like you.” Dean blurts. When Castiel just stares blankly at him, Dean blushes and adds, “I like you…in the way...a dude likes another dude in more than a friendly chest bumping on touchdowns way.”

“In a homosexual manner then?” Castiel never actually understood the point of American football. It just seemed like four hours of a lot of running.

“Yes, a homosexual manner! Jesus Christ.” Dean looks appalled but Castiel can’t understand why. They’re finally communicating. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

“I like you in a homosexual manner too, Dean.” Castiel smiles slightly when he says it and Dean laughs. “That’s great, Cas.” A moment passes between them in comfortable silence but something still bothers Castiel about all of this.

“Why did you stay away then?” Castiel wonders aloud.

“Various reasons. Some of them seem really stupid now.”

“Such as?”

“Such as…I thought maybe I took advantage of you or that I could get you in trouble. Also I broke a rule. #66 section 6 in the Demons Handbook to Awesome Evil: Do not have sexual relations or circle jerks with one or more angels.”

“I’m not in trouble and I was a very willing participant that night.” 

“I wasn’t sure. You looked sort of confused. No one is supposed to look that confused during sex.”

“I was a virgin.” Castiel states, flatly. 

“I sort of realized that…two weeks late.” Dean stands up from his chair, he fidgets with the buttons on his coat and worries his bottom lip red with his teeth. He adjusts his black sunglasses again as they slip down his freckled nose. Dean looks calm and casual but Castiel sees the stiffness in his shoulders. He’s still waiting to be rejected. Castiel is still waiting for Dean to call it all a joke.

“So what’s the last reason?” Castiel looks up at him.

“I’m a demon. Who would want that?”

“I would,” Castiel answers without even the slightest hint of restraint. “But what changed your mind?”

“I figured breaking our own rules wouldn’t be such a bad thing in the grand scheme of bad things. Besides, I…” Dean plucks a black rook piece and places it square in the middle of the chess board. It goes unsaid but Castiel has a feeling he knows what Dean was going to say anyway.

Castiel stands up next to him and pulls the dark shades off Dean’s face. His eyes are still green. They’re not black or red or snake like or filled with hellfire. He blinks at Castiel and the left corner of his mouth twitches with the hint of a genuine smile.

He clutches Dean’s smooth tie in his hand tightly and tugs him until he gets the idea. Dean kisses him and it’s better this time around. It’s not hurried or hungry but slow and soft. Even when one of Dean’s hands moves down to squeeze Castiel’s rear, it’s still nice and not completely unexpected.

In a little bookshop, a demon and an angel fell in love.

 

 

**Epilogue**

It’s a Tuesday night when Dean bursts into the shop looking worried. He’s carrying a large basket and he sets it down on the counter by the register. He sits down at their tiny round table and takes out a silver flask from his coat pocket. For some odd reason, Dean is imbibing on alcohol before 4:30pm. 

“Dean, what’s in the basket?” 

Dean chokes a little on the whiskey he’d been drinking and says, “Nothing, just ignore it.”

Castiel shrugs and is about to join him at the small table when the basket starts to cry. Loud and angry wailing that is painful to listen to. 

“The basket is crying. I don’t think it would be prudent to ignore it.” 

“Cas, wait!” Dean pleads.

Castiel peers over the counter, looks inside the basket just as a tiny hand reaches out from underneath a white blanket. Castiel pulls away the fabric and finds himself looking at a tiny human child with odd brown hair and eyes. He’s never seen a child born with a hairstyle before.

“It’s a baby boy. What’s his name?” He asks.

“Justin Bieber…” Dean replies, morosely.

“Why does that name illicit a great sense of foreboding in me?”

“Better hold on to your wings, Cas. It’s the end of the world.”

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Old story I wrote. Fixed it up a bit. Not truly happy with it. If you remember this story from livejournal, then cookies for you.


End file.
